"Not so good, hey?" she asked.
"A bit slick. Too many notes from the tenor, but…"
"You'd better be a Canadian who knows about jazz. And forgive me asking an indelicate question, but how are you off for money-on the whole trip? I don't imagine the Army's too generous."
"I've got my own credit cards. And George gave me abig lump in traveller's cheques. He said money was one problem I didn't have to have."
"Good for him. But he's got it so that it hurts. However, they're all signed Maxim, right? You'll have to cash in some and then buy more signed… We haven't got a name for you yet. How about Winterbotham? I've always wanted to know a Winterbotham."
"I'm damned if I have."
"Good: you'll remember it. Think of all those dreadful jokes you suffered at school. Alan James? I think that'll do: Alan James Winterbotham, this is your new life. Practise a signature-and initials."
Maxim found a radish on his plate and ate it. His expression changed. "That was a strawberry. D'you servestrawberries with crab here?"
"Live a little, or at least die quietly."
24
The ride down Northern Boulevard from La Guardiaairport to the Queensboro bridge may not be the best way to see New York for the first time, although Maxim caught glimpses of its towers jolting towards them over the grey horizon. But does anybody see New York for the first time these days? Most people have been familiar with its skyline since they were old enough to focus on a TV screen. They may feel New York for the first time, because its fast-dealing busyness is something the screen doesn't catch, and may smell it for the first time, if they come in high summer, but one of the great first sights of the world is gone for ever.
Magill's offices were towards the top of a modest tower on midtown Madison. They were kept waiting for just a couple of minutes-"While Mr Magi U completes a call" -in a cool-warm windowless reception area soundproofed so that even the loudest complaint about a bill would come out as a hushed croak, then ushered through into an office that was almost straight from Charles Dickens.
Agnes stood and looked around, then caught Maxim's thought by saying: "What, no rolltop desk? Cheap, Mo, cheap," and Magill came out from behind his flat-topped mahogany desk with a shout of laughter and hugged her and patted her bottom.
He was a big man, everything about him was big, shoulders, chest, nose, eyes and ears, everything except his near-flat stomach and his hair, which had faded on top and grown to wise-looking grey tufts over his ears.
"Rolltops?" he shouted over Agnes's shoulder. "This is genuine Sheraton, sweetie, except the asshole never made a piece in his life, on account he was into franchising ahead of anybody except the Pope. How're you doing?"-this to Maxim, over Agnes's shoulder, stretching out a big hand -"you must be Major Harry Maxim. Sit down, children, d'you want to get married or divorced or just sue each other? Have some coffee." He poured it from a Victorian coffee pot waiting on a hotplate and launched into a description of a case he'd just won, punctuated by blasts of laughter and big gestures.
Maxim sipped his coffee and glanced covertly round the room, at the shelves of leather-bound legal volumes, a row of Spy's legal cartoons, framed degrees and photographs of Magill as a young soldier and, he guessed, General 'Wild Bill' Donovan, the founder of US intelligence.
"… the guy called me the minute he got back to his office, and he said: 'Mo, do you agree with me that judge was as wet as hell?' and I said: 'If you so say, but he was sure swimming in the right pool.' " He rocked his swivel chair back with more laughter. "Okay then, what can I really do for you?-or did you just want to talk about old times?"
"Just that, Mo," Agnes said. She was sitting in the main client's chair, wearing a dark brown suit with a faint orange check and clutching a huge floppy handbag in her lap. "Just old times. Something's come out of the woodwork… D'you remember Winter Garden?"
"Sure I do, but you don't. You weren't even born then."
"Just barely. But I heard about it in training. Would anybody still have lists of those people, Mo?"
"Jeez, no. I never had lists myself. All that stuff, you just don't have lists. Washington wanted them, we said the hell, the whole thing is busted if you have lists. We gave them codenames and radio frequencies, they never got lists out of us. All this is long gone; long, long gone. "
"Well…" Agnes seemed momentarily lost; Maxim did nothing except sit still and watch, as Agnes had told him to. She fumbled a cigarette from her bag and lit it. "Well… did you ever arm these people?"
Agnes's head was down over her cigarette; it was Maxim who caught the moment of stillness in Magill's big restless body.
"Arms? Never, no way at all. This was then, we wereindenting for paperclips one by one in those days. We just didn't have arms." He laughed abruptly, an afterthought.
"Good, that clears that one up. So it can't be the old Winter Garden crop."
Magill smiled. "I still don't know what you're talking about."
"I suppose I'd better tell, just in case you've got any thoughts. Things have been happening in the UK. You must have read about the Reznichenko Memorandum? Somebody faked it: Russian typewriter, letter heading, Reznichenko's signature-all backed up by a first-class tail job. Then somebody got a leading anti-NATO speaker drugged and he blew an important speech." Agnes was putting all her cards on the table; "-and then there was the Abbey. Somebody took a shot, not at the President, they could have killed him easily, but knocked off a man who could have swung thirty votes in favour of a Berlin settlement. That was with a Russian rifle; then he blew himself up with a Russian grenade. How does all that grab you?"
"Your people will think all that stuff ties up together, hey?"
"It's a pattern, Mo."
Magill put his elbows on his desk, clasping the dainty china cup in front of his mouth with both hands. He wore a plain white shirt as fresh as new snow, tiny gold cufflinks and a polka-dot tie. There was no sign of his jacket, but there was a second door to the room, so probably he had a private bathroom and clothes closet as well.
"I don't know anything except what I read in the papers, but from what I do read, your government can't see this pattern."
"Governments? When did you start caringwhatgovernments can and can't see?"
Magill grinned behind his cup. "Getting old, I guess. But your Service wants to get it all sorted and gift-wrapped for them? Or is it just you? and the unknown soldier here."
"Harry? He was heading up the President's getaway operation at the Abbey. He shot the chap who did the shooting."
Magill gave Maxim a steady, searching look, and Maxim smiled self-consciously back. "Over here for the After Action Study, hey?"
"Was that in the papers?" Agnes asked innocently.
Magill gave another shout of laughter. "Okay… but I'll tell you what I think, sweetie. I don't think your new Director-General knows anything about this. I don't even think he's the sort of guy who'd want to know anything about this. And I further think you're working all on your ownsome on this and that's why you've come to good old Uncle Mo instead of going to the boys at Langley. Am I right? 1'
Agnes's smile was small but seemingly frank and cheerful. "The boys at Langley don't do much talking to us just at the moment. And suppose I did get through, all they'd say is it's nothing to do with them, they weren't even in the Company at that time-and how many of them were?"
"If you're worried about Winter Garden, there's nobody left who had any status aroundthat time, sure. But I'm telling you, forget Winter Garden. It's long gone-we didn't give them arms, we didn't give them the sort of training you're talking about. And they're old men like me, now. Forget it."